


Arrhythmia

by Songspinner



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Canon-Typical Violence, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route Spoilers, He's only MOSTLY dead, M/M, Temporary Character Death, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:02:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25930279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Songspinner/pseuds/Songspinner
Summary: Dimitri's too late to save Claude at Derdriu, but he doesn't intend to let it stay that way. What price is too high to pay for the life of one man?
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 10
Kudos: 82





	1. Never Again

**Author's Note:**

> This fic started as a conversation between a bunch of us on the Dimiclaude Big Bang Discord server and spiraled out into an AU and a whole story, so while I'm writing the actual words, a lot of it is a group effort!
> 
> Posted for day 7 of Dimiclaude Birthday Week 2020, using the prompts Past/Future and AUs.

“Your wounds from Gronder Field haven’t fully healed yet, have they?”

Judith’s got sharp eyes, Claude has to hand it to her. No one else but Hilda has noticed the small signs--a wince here and there, the way he turns to avoid twisting too much. But he shrugs. “No, but it’s not like I can sit this one out. I have to make my daring escape, after all.” He fixes her with a stern look. “And for the last time, stop calling me ‘boy’! That’s an official order from the _leader_ _of the Alliance_.”

“Understood, Leader Man.” He rolls his eyes at her smirk. She really doesn’t plan to ever show him the respect his position is due, does she? “I wonder if our little ray of hope will show up… We fought on opposite sides at Gronder, didn’t we?”

_ Don’t remind me, _ Claude wants to say. One or two of those wounds Judith’s so concerned about came from Areadbhar itself, when Claude tried to convince Dimitri to quit killing Alliance soldiers for no reason and got a lance to the thigh for his trouble. Anyone else would have written the prince off as a lost cause right then and there.

Not Claude.

He smiles. “They’ll come. You can count on it.”

“ _ Can _ we?” comes another voice, as Hilda approaches, looking uncharacteristically serious. “Claude, you know I’m usually all in on your wacky schemes, but  _ tell _ me you have a backup plan for the possibility that Dimitri’s not coming.”

“Of course I do, Hilda.” He doesn’t, actually. He’s been backed into a corner, Edelgard knows it, and the only thing that can save the Alliance now is a troubled prince with a wounded heart deciding to put honor and compassion above his own war and his thirst for revenge. And, Claude likes to think, some nostalgia for an old flame.

It’d be nice if ‘old flame’ were all he felt for Dimitri now.

But there’s no use falling into what-ifs and maybes, not on the cusp of his most desperate battle yet. He’ll wait until the Kingdom army arrives and helps win the day before prodding at the rush of relief and sentiment that washed over him like a wave when he saw that Dimitri was still alive back at Gronder…

“Just trust me on this. I know Dimitri. He won’t leave us to the wolves.”

“I hope, for all our sakes, that this isn’t just wishful thinking, Claude…” Hilda knows, of course. She always knows. “And that he didn’t get himself killed  _ again _ in Fhirdiad.”

“Have some faith. He’ll be here. You’ll see.”

* * *

The clamor of clashing steel and explosive magic mingles with screams that reach him on the wind, filling the streets of his Aquatic City. Claude is a man who clings tooth and nail to hope, but even he’s beginning to succumb to the dawning horror of despair.

The Kingdom army did not come, despite all of Claude’s assurances. The Imperial army has been advancing through the city at a rapid pace, and Claude is grateful that they were able to get the citizens offshore quickly enough. Once Derdriu falls, though… _ if _ . If Derdriu falls. There won’t be anywhere for them to go. The ships aren’t stocked for a trip all the way to Fraldarius or Almyra, and once the Empire takes control of the bay, it will truly be the end.

Hilda turns from her post on the bridge to call back to him. “Claude, it’s over! Now would be a great time for that backup plan you mentioned!”

Claude shakes his head. “Stay the course.”

“Have you lost your mind? Face it, Claude, he’s  _ not coming. _ Pull everyone back, we can make a last stand here--”

_ “Hold the line _ ,” he insists.

He sees it on her face: the moment she starts to pity him. But she shrugs and hefts her axe. “Whatever you say, Leader Man. ...for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

He never gets the chance to reply. A scout bursts onto the bridge on horseback, galloping at speed and then rearing up so hard Claude almost thinks they might topple into the water. “Claude! Reinforcements are coming from the west!”

His heart sinks. That’s it, then. Hilda’s right--it’s over. He opens his mouth to give the order to fall back when the scout keeps going, speaking the magic words: “Their banner is that of the Kingdom!”

Claude’s eyes widen. “...he came,” he whispers, and something overwhelmingly light and glad bubbles up from somewhere deep inside him. He can’t see the banners yet, not from here, but he can imagine it so clearly--rows of cavalry and infantry swathed in blue, battalions of pegasus knights streaking across the sky overhead, the gryphon banners and those bearing the Crest of Blaiddyd flapping triumphantly in the wind. And there at the head of the march, leading them all--

His face splits into a wide grin and he lets that bubbling feeling overflow into joyous laughter. “It’s Dimitri!”

Hilda looks stunned, but his sudden high spirits are contagious enough that soon she’s smiling, too. “At least save the ‘I told you so’ for  _ after _ the battle, okay?”

“No promises!” He laughs again, whooping into the sky. Hilda shakes her head at him, but can’t hide her grin as she steps back to her post with renewed determination. Even the sounds of battle on the sea breeze somehow carry more vigor, now that the Kingdom forces are here.

“All right!” Claude shouts to anyone who can hear him. “Let’s win this and save Derdriu!”

* * *

Dimitri abandons his horse at the city gates. He always fights better on foot. Byleth does the same beside him, drawing the Sword of the Creator. “We must be swift,” Dimitri says to the commanders closest to him--Sylvain, Felix, Dedue, and Ingrid hovering above. “Simply arriving in time is not enough. The Imperial army has advanced more than halfway through the city. If we delay, they will reach Claude before we can catch them in a pincer between ourselves and the Alliance troops.”

He glances to Byleth for their opinion on his assessment, and they nod their approval. The two of them give their orders, and from there it’s just a matter of advancing as quickly as they can without losing their formations.

_ Claude. _ Dimitri almost couldn’t believe his eyes when the missive came to the palace in Fhirdiad--but he’d recognize that handwriting anywhere, even if it weren’t for the gold seal bearing the Riegan Crest. After Gronder Field...after what he did to Claude, to his men...Dimitri couldn’t imagine the man would ever wish to speak to him again. But there he was, requesting aid from the same Dimitri who had nearly taken his leg off with Areadbhar not two months ago. The same one who plowed indiscriminately through Alliance forces in his mad, bloody rush to get to Edelgard. And it arrived on the very night that they retook the capital, which means Claude sent it before they ever even  _ got  _ there, much less ousted the Empire.

...Claude had faith in him. He feels warm all over just thinking about it again. Even after everything, Claude believed in  _ him _ . It was hard for him to accept, at first. But Byleth pointed out that the minute Dimitri received the letter, he gave the order to march to Derdriu, no questions asked. So, they said, Claude’s faith was not misplaced. And, they went on, if  _ Claude _ could have faith in him, shouldn’t he have some faith in himself?

It’s...a tall order, even now. But seeing with his own eye that they didn’t miss the battle, that they made it in time to save the Alliance, to save Claude...Dimitri almost can’t help but be confident. Proud. He can, perhaps, stand before the man he-- loves, yes, he still loves Claude, even after all this time-- and feel something like worthy. And he can perhaps stand before his people and truly feel like their king.

Soon, the Kingdom’s vanguard breaks through the narrow, mazy streets out into an open area where the battle is fierce and frenzied. The Alliance army has long since abandoned its proper formations, and so many of its dead litter the cobblestones that even before Dimitri fully grasps the situation, he’s uneasy. The uneasiness turns to dread when he spots a familiar face among the Imperial troops. “Uncle…”

Dimitri’s fist tightens around Areadhbhar’s haft, gauntlet creaking, as he spots white wings flapping in the distance at the edge of the harbor and arrows wreathed in light streaking across the water. The Leicester troops have closed ranks to block the enemy’s access to the bridge that leads there, but Arundel and his men are dead set on pushing through. “Professor...his mobility is his greatest asset, why wait to be cornered?”

Byleth blinks once, surveying the scene laid out before them in an instant. “He’s protecting the citizens. The entire city is empty, but Derdriu is sandwiched between the Imperial advance and the mountains. The only place to evacuate them--”

“--they are at sea,” Dimitri breathes, eye fixed on that distant figure. “Claude…” But of course, Dimitri would expect nothing less, despite all that people say about the Alliance leader even now. Few are privileged enough to be allowed to see the solid core of compassion at the heart of everything Claude has ever done, the way he loves humanity. Dimitri is among those few, and this stand the duke makes for the sake of his people nearly brings a tear to his eye. “I will  _ not  _ let Claude die.  _ Advance!” _

Dimitri lifts his lance high and thrusts it forward to signal the charge. Blue-clad soldiers pour into the plaza to follow their prince into the fray. Areadbhar whirls almost faster than the eye can parse, carving a path like a hot knife through butter--not quite indiscriminately, not anymore, but Faerghan and Alliance troops both steer clear of him, and he’s glad for it. He doesn’t want to hold back. Not with Claude’s life in the balance. Only Byleth and their battalion try to stay close, but Dimitri outpaces them quickly, ignoring the professor’s urgent objections.

By now, Adrestian generals are more familiar with the prince of Faerghus on the battlefield than they likely ever wanted to be, and they know their only chance of stopping him is with sheer numbers. So it doesn’t surprise Dimitri much when Arundel gives the order for several entire battalions to break off from their push toward the harbor to intercept him. He sneers in disgust even as his spear and gauntlets reap them like wheat, even as their blood paints his armor--his uncle knows full well that these men will die at his hands, and he orders them to that grisly end like mere fodder for the fire. Even so, the prince is merciless.

They fall upon him in what seems like an endless parade of faceless foes. A few land their blows, but it avails them nothing--and yet frustration,  _ desperation, _ claws at Dimitri’s chest. They’re slowing him down. They’re keeping him from Claude, and--

A shrill scream rings out from the bridge, bloodcurdling and pained, and even above the din he hears the anguish when Claude cries out Hilda’s name. She was guarding the bridge. And still, her commander doesn’t abandon his post.  _ She was guarding the bridge _ \--

“GET OUT OF MY WAY!” Dimitri roars. He renews his slaughter of these wretched  _ rats _ with a mad fury, tearing through them with his clawed hands when his lance proves insufficient. He will  _ crush _ them. He will crush anyone who dares even to  _ dream _ of laying a finger on Claude. He doesn’t hear Byleth shouting for him to stay with his soldiers. He hears nothing but the rushing blood in his ears.

He finally bursts through the Imperial line just in time to see Arundel leading a battalion of archers onto the bridge, past Hilda’s motionless body. Other troops amass to keep Dimitri at bay. He bellows wordlessly in his frantic struggle to kill them  _ faster _ , to remove them from his sight, to reach the bridge, he won’t be too late, he won’t let Claude die, he  _ won’t _ . “Claude!”

The duke had to have seen him already, but his deadly focus remains on firing down on Arundel’s men, trying to pick them off before they get close enough to return fire with their inferior weapons. “Good to see you, Your Highness,” comes his call, but Dimitri can hear the strain in his voice. “Just in time, huh?” As ever, his aim is true, but shields and some kind of magical protection send most of his arrows into the water.

Dimitri rears back to plunge Areadbhar’s tip into another soldier, but the soldier abruptly chokes and falls to the ground. The whip-like blade of Byleth’s sword snaps back bloodied as they fight their way to the prince’s side. “Dimitri--”

“You,” spits Arundel from the bridge. “Your very presence is a nuisance, Fell Star. But you know as well as I that you’re much too late once again.” His cruel smile sends a chill down Dimitri’s spine. “Go back as many times as you like. You can change nothing. Did you not learn this lesson once already when you failed to save your father?”

“What?” Dimitri spares Byleth a glance, but they shake their head even as they both press on. The archers have reached firing range and now the air is filled with arrows flying in both directions--but those coming from Failnaught have slowed considerably. The wyvern wheels and swerves to avoid the worst of the barrage, but Claude must be running out of arrows.

Finally,  _ finally _ Dimitri’s path to the bridge is clear, and Byleth pushes him on ahead before they turn to hold the line behind him there. Just as Hilda did, until… He snatches a javelin from a corpse with his off hand and flings it with enough force to not only impale the rearmost archer through the chest, but send them  _ and _ the one in front of them over the side and into the bay. He charges in the weapon’s wake, a streak of gold and white and blue under the shining sun. A sick satisfaction nestles in his gut to see the terror in the eyes of those who turn to meet his one-man stampede. It’s the Boar Prince they fear, and in this moment he sinks to their expectations with not a shred of remorse.

As he yanks Areadbhar back from its latest meaty sheath, a chilling shriek sounds from up ahead. He jerks his head up and freezes. Several arrows pierce the wyvern’s thick, scaled hide, but the last straw was the one arrow that’s torn through one of her wings. He watches her plummet and his heart goes with her--but he lets out the breath he was holding when he sees Claude jump free of the saddle and roll to his feet, abandoning his bow and empty quiver in favor of his axe.  _ There’s still time. _

“Foolish boy,” Arundel says, and he can’t tell whether the man’s talking to him or to Claude, but he pays it no mind. “My only regret is that you’ll never know how many times you’ve had to watch him die.”

“Hey, I won’t go down that easily,” Claude retorts, advancing carefully on Arundel just as Dimitri reaches past the last soldier’s hastily drawn sword and crushes the skull under his palm with the barest effort.

Dimitri extends his arm to point the tip of his lance directly at Arundel’s chest. “It is over.” It comes out gruff and hoarse.

“You would raise a weapon against your uncle?” Arundel shakes his head. “You’ve grown into a savage of a man. Just like your father.”

Dimitri only scoffs. “You are rather calm for one in your position. Or did you forget that this is a battlefield?” Arundel shrugs, still as smug as ever. “Perhaps this is no time for words, Uncle,” the prince amends. “There will be time for that after we settle things here.”

“You’re right. This is no time for words.” There’s no warning, not even a blink’s span for Dimitri to drive his weapon through flesh or for Claude to swing his axe, before Arundel vanishes in an eerie flash of light.

“Where--” But Dimitri doesn’t have to wonder for long. Before the word falls completely from his lips, something hums with a bone-jarring dissonance. And in that moment, Claude vanishes from his sight in a massive, howling column of dark magic. Dimitri’s eye widens, his mouth opens, but nothing comes out. He can’t seem to take in the breath to speak. He stumbles forward, hand outstretched, as a guttural cry of pain tears its way from Claude’s throat.

It’s over before his fingers touch the magic’s edge. It dissipates, and Claude falls, and at least Dimitri can do  _ this _ much: he can be here to catch Claude in his arms before he hits the cold ground. “Claude? Claude, can you hear me?” His words come out shaky, but at least they come out at all. Claude’s eyes don’t open. His body is covered in lacerations, angry and deep, seething with darkness. His clothes are torn everywhere, his padded armor useless in the face of sorcery. There’s so much blood, so much of  _ Claude’s _ blood, seeping onto Dimitri’s hands...

Only then does he notice the figure standing just behind where Claude stood, idly shaking a wisp of energy from his fingers. “Too late again, boy,” Arundel says, even as Byleth’s footsteps rush across the bridge behind Dimitri. “I wonder. Will the Fell Star finally face the truth and let destiny take its course, this time?” And then he’s gone again, disappeared, but the prince no longer cares.

“Claude. Claude, please. Wake up.  _ Please. _ ” Dimitri’s frantic in tearing off his gauntlet and then his glove, baring his hand to slide his fingers under Claude’s collar and press them to the pulse point there. Nothing. Nothing. His hand trembles when he moves it to hover just above Claude’s mouth and nose, to feel warm breath on his palm. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

“Claude--” He chokes on the word, chokes on his tears and the sobs that wrack him, but even then he’s so gentle in wrapping the b--wrapping Claude in his arms, so careful in cradling him close.

Byleth kneels beside him and places a hand on his shoulder, but for once, it brings no comfort. “Professor...I didn’t-- I was too late. He-- His entire plan was counting on me and I failed him. I let him...I let him d--” He can’t, he can’t say it.

It takes a while for Byleth to respond. “I’m sorry,” they say.

Dimitri tears his gaze away from Claude’s face to look at them, face tear-streaked, eye narrowed in suspicion. “But you can do something, can’t you? I heard what my uncle said. That you can go...back? Go back and change things. He said that I have…” He trails off, but when he finds nothing in Byleth’s eyes, he picks up momentum. “He said that I have watched Claude die before. You can do something. Please, Professor, I…” His breath hitches and he whispers, “I cannot have...lost him. Please.”

A small furrow mars the blankness of their expression. “...he was right. I can turn time back, but I’ve done it already here. Many times. It always ends the same way.”

“Always…” Dimitri barely comprehends this, but he plows on. “No, you cannot give up. That is what my uncle wants! We can change something else. We can save him.”

"We can’t,” Byleth says softly. “If turning back the hands of time was not enough to save his life, you must accept what came to pass was fate. ...Some things are simply meant to be.”

“Fate? ...no.” His voice dips low, almost a growl when he says, “Do not speak to me of  _ fate _ . You will fix this. I will not suffer  _ him  _ to haunt me with the others. Not him.”

Byleth frowns further. “Dimitri, I have tried and tried.” Firm, now. “The fact is...we simply arrived too late. No strategy we could employ with the resources we have can prevent Claude’s death.”

“Then go further.” Dimitri clutches Claude as though letting go would mean the end of everything. “Go back to the march to Fhirdiad, and we’ll change course to beat back the invasion of the Alliance first.”

“I can’t.”

Dimitri’s jaw clenches. “Why not.”

Byleth hesitates. “I’ve never gone back that far before. I don’t know what it will do.”

“His life is worth finding out!”

The professor goes quiet. Dimitri turns his eye back to Claude’s lifeless body, cooling under his bare hand. He moves it to touch the soft, dark curls of Claude’s hair, just like he used to. It’s longer now, he notes distantly. How could Dimitri have let five years pass without seeing him even once? An acute longing rises suddenly to crush his heart under its weight. “Professor--”

“If I go back, you won’t remember this,” Byleth interjects.

“I  _ must. _ ” Loath as he is to keep this memory--much as he would rather never have felt the overwhelming sorrow of loss a second time--he isn’t certain that he would listen if Byleth were to explain the situation to him a few weeks ago. “I need...this. This experience. I need it to push myself as hard as I need to, to ensure this never happens. Take me with you.”

“I--”

Dimitri whips his head around to face them, snarling. “DO IT! That is an  _ order _ , and you  _ will  _ follow it.”

Byleth presses their lips together into a thin line. They don’t flinch back, like most would in the face of the prince’s ire. Their expression barely changes, but he can see the hurt in their eyes. Still, he won’t back down. He mustn’t. For Claude. He would give up his throne for Claude, he thinks. He would give up the whole world, if it meant that Claude was safe.

“...all right,” they say eventually. “I’ll try.”

Dimitri’s shoulders sag with relief. He leans over to press a gentle kiss to Claude’s forehead. “We are coming, beloved,” he whispers. “This time, I will not fail you. Never again.”


	2. I Will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Where’s the Professor?” Annette asks.
> 
> “The Professor will not be joining us.” Dimitri barrels past that before anyone can press further. “Imperial forces are poised to regroup quickly and force their way across the Bridge of Myrddin to take Derdriu. We must ensure that does not happen.”
> 
> “How do you know that?” says Felix, eyeing him suspiciously. “And why is it any of our business? I thought we had agreed to retake Fhirdiad and push west.”
> 
> “No, His Highness has a point,” Sylvain puts in, rubbing his chin. “If the Empire really does invade the Alliance while we’re in Fhirdiad, they can cross the Oirbsean Sea into Fraldarius and crush us between two fronts.”
> 
> Dimitri has to admit to himself that he hadn’t even thought of that possibility, so focused has he been on the task he came back for. He silently thanks the Goddess for Sylvain’s strategic mind and nods. “And beyond that, Leicester is our ally...what happened at Gronder notwithstanding. I refuse to simply stand by and watch it fall.”

If Dimitri had to describe what it feels like to ride Byleth’s Divine Pulse into the past, he might say it was as though he could hear the heartbeat of the world thumping in his ears and the rushing of time’s reversed flow like all of history inhaling deeply. Colors turn inside out in his vision as the pulse’s slow pounding crushes him, takes him over body and soul, fills him and hollows him out until he becomes nothing but its vessel. He’s enslaved to its rhythm as it hammers at him, reshaping him in its own image. His heart throbs in time with the deafening cadence and he feels it deep in his chest, his gut, his groin, his core.

Is this, he wonders, the Goddess’ own heartbeat?

He snaps back to awareness so suddenly it makes his ears ring. Dizzy, he stumbles and catches himself on the nearest thing available, which happens to be Sylvain.

“Whoa, Your Highness, easy does it.” Sylvain steadies him with an arm around his shoulders and a palm pressing against his breastplate, and Dimitri imagines that surely, his friend ought to be able to hear the beating of that titanic heart reverberating still through his bones and making his head ache, but Sylvain doesn’t seem to. “You holding up okay?”

“Yes, I am fine,” he snaps dismissively as he waves Sylvain off, steady now even with his heart still racing with adrenaline and fear. He can still feel the weight of Claude in his arms, the hoarseness of his voice when he roared at Byleth, but he tries to take stock quickly before anyone else notices that something is amiss. They’ve made camp in the lee of a mountain’s foothills, which lie to the northwest--which means they’re just about to cross the border from Daphnel into Galatea. He remembers faintly that Byleth advised him to make camp early before they made that crossing, rather than exhaust everyone with a journey over rough terrain through a dangerously narrow pass after nearly a full day of marching.

“You should get some rest, Your Highness,” says Ingrid from Sylvain’s other side, brushing down her pegasus, though she pauses with concern now. “Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Of course,” Dimitri agrees quickly. “But I must consult with the professor first. Have you seen them?”

Sylvain gives him a bemused look. “You...just left their tent. Like five minutes ago.”

“...ah.” He stands there in an awkward silence that seems to drain the urgency from him. “I-- Forgive me, I must be wearier than I thought. If you would not mind pointing it out to me…?”

Ingrid exchanges worried glances with Sylvain--no doubt she thinks he’s slipping. Dimitri reminds himself that only a few days have passed since Rodrigue’s...since Rodrigue. It still hurts, especially now, in the wake of--all this. They’ll be tiptoeing around him for a little while longer. He sighs to think of it, but Sylvain only shrugs and directs him to Byleth’s tent. How alarming to think that his behavior has been so erratic in recent years that this seems barely a drop in the bucket to Sylvain.

The flap is already open, but still he stands just outside, hands folded behind his back. He’s suddenly embarrassed to have begged in desperation and exploded in rage the way he did, although he wouldn’t take it back even if he could--it got him here, and that’s what matters. “Professor?” he calls, hardly daring to even peer inside.

“...come in, Dimitri,” comes their voice in response. It’s a bit faint, he thinks, ducking low to step through the flap. Byleth lies on their cot, eyes half-open and staring upward, hands folded over their abdomen. They don’t turn when he enters.

His stomach lurches. They said they didn’t know what would happen, what if-- He moves to the cot and kneels beside it. “Professor, are you…”

They blink slowly and manage to shift their gaze to him, this close. “I think I’m going back to sleep.”

“To sleep?” A heavy breath leaves him in relief. “I see. Yes, of course, you must be exhausted. Perhaps tomorrow, we can wait a few more hours rather than depart at dawn.”

“No…” Byleth sighs. “A deeper sleep.”

It takes Dimitri longer than it should to realize what they mean. When Byleth found him at the monastery months ago, he was not entirely present, and his memories of that time are spotty; sluggish when he summons them to mind. “I...you cannot mean that you will sleep for another five years?” His heart clenches again. “But--what of the war? ...what have I done? We need you. _I_ need you.”

Byleth’s hand moves to pat his arm lightly. “No, you don’t. Not anymore. You are stronger than you know, Dimitri.” Their lips curve slightly into a small smile. “I don’t know how long I’ll sleep. When I wake, I expect to see you ruling a peaceful Faerghus.”

“Professor--”

“Shhh.” Byleth’s hand returns to its place. “Go save him. If anyone can help you win this war, it’s Claude. Give him my regards.”

A hollowness settles in Dimitri’s chest, a guilt that he knows will gnaw at him until he sees them awake and well again; but even now, he can’t say he wishes they’d remained in what, he supposes, is now once again the future. Byleth...will live. Sleep, perhaps, but live. “...of course. But what will I tell everyone?”

Byleth shrugs, leaden eyelids closing fully now. “You’ll figure it out.” The words come out in a sigh, and nothing follows.

Dimitri takes one of their hands gently in his own and presses his forehead to its warmth, squeezing his eyes shut for just a moment. “Sleep well, Professor,” he murmurs.

* * *

Byleth doesn’t rise the next morning.

“There has been a change of plan,” he tells his commanders as they gather by the cooking fire for breakfast. “The bulk of the army will remain camped here for now. I will continue on to Derdriu with a small contingent to warn the Alliance of the Empire’s imminent invasion.”

The others look at each other in confusion. “What imminent invasion?” Sylvain asks slowly.

“And where’s the Professor?” Annette adds.

“The Professor will not be joining us.” Dimitri barrels past that before anyone can press further. “Imperial forces are poised to regroup quickly and force their way across the Bridge of Myrddin to take Derdriu. We must ensure that does not happen.”

“How do you know that?” says Felix, eyeing him suspiciously. “And why is it any of our business? I thought we had agreed to retake Fhirdiad and push west.”

“No, His Highness has a point,” Sylvain puts in, rubbing his chin. “If the Empire really does invade the Alliance while we’re in Fhirdiad, they can cross the Oirbsean Sea into Fraldarius and crush us between two fronts.”

Dimitri has to admit to himself that he hadn’t even thought of that possibility, so focused has he been on the task he came back for. He silently thanks the Goddess for Sylvain’s strategic mind and nods. “And beyond that, Leicester is our ally...what happened at Gronder notwithstanding. I refuse to simply stand by and watch it fall.”

Annette and Mercedes exchange glances. He assumes they recall how close he was to Claude back at the academy, two of the few who knew, and wills them not to bring it up; fortunately, they don’t. Instead, Annette says, “But...why isn’t the Professor going?”

“...I am afraid they have fallen back into a deep sleep.” Dimitri watches their faces go from surprise and confusion to dismay and alarm.

“That...is very unfortunate,” Gilbert says eventually. “But even so, we must press on.”

“Agreed.” Several of them open their mouths, questions clear in their eyes, so Dimitri cuts them off before they speak. “Ingrid, you will accompany me to Derdriu with a handful of your soldiers. The rest of you will remain here until I return or send word with further orders.”

“Of course, Your Highness.” Dimitri has often wished that Ingrid would treat him less like her prince and more like her friend, but in this instance he can’t help his gratitude that she simply agrees without argument. It’s part of why he chose her, he admits to himself with a bit of shame--but only a bit.

After Dimitri dismisses them, he isn’t surprised to find Felix approaching him with a stubborn gleam in his eye. “Yes, Felix, what is it?”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, Dimitri.”

Felix never minces words. Ordinarily, Dimitri likes that about him--to an extent, at least. But there’s too much he doesn’t want to have to explain right now. “I understand that until recently, I gave you little reason to trust my judgment,” he says, “but I assure you that I know precisely what I am doing. More now, perhaps, than ever before.”

Felix folds his arms. “Do you? Because none of our scouts have heard a thing about Imperial advancement so soon after Gronder--in fact, Edelgard went back to Enbarr to recover. And now the Professor is conveniently out of the picture, just in time for you to change our plans?”

“Felix…” Dimitri pinches the bridge of his nose, feeling a headache coming on.

“Did you forget already that my father died to give _you_ the chance to take back the capital? I told you that I would hold you to that vow you made. On _your_ father’s lance.”

Dimitri fights to keep calm. Breathe in. Breathe out. “...no, I did not forget. We _will_ take back the capital, and the rest of Faerghus along with it, I promise you.”

“Before or after Fraldarius and Gautier fall?” Felix snaps.

“Before.” Dimitri doesn’t hesitate to give his answer, leveling a steady gaze at his oldest friend. “If I fail you in this, you will be well within your rights to do whatever you deem necessary to--”

“Stop, just...stop talking.” Felix rubs his face. “I don’t want to hear any more promises out of you. If you fail, there’s a long line of blades waiting to take your life ahead of mine. So don’t fail.” He walks away.

* * *

The final approach to Derdriu makes Dimitri’s skin crawl. When last he was here, his horse’s hooves pounded the path at a reckless gallop as he prayed frantically that it would be enough. The ghosts whose voices dog him still, even now, scorn him for the shortcomings he so blatantly displayed here in the Aquatic City and will surely display again; for the trust Claude placed in him that he so shamefully betrayed in his ineptitude. _Never again,_ he mutters under his breath, a mantra he throws back at them as though it alone could keep their harsh whispers at bay. Never again. Never again. Never--

“Your Highness, are you all right?” He shakes himself and looks up. It’s Ingrid calling down to him, swooping low on her pegasus.

“I-- Yes, of course, Ingrid. I’m fine.” But he notices then that he’s urged his mount back to that breakneck speed he remembers from a time that is no more, without noticing. “Ah--” He gently tugs the reins, slowing to their previous measured pace. “My apologies. I must have been lost in thought.”

“I see.” The furrow in her brow says otherwise, but she doesn’t question him further. “We’ll be within sight of their scouts when we crest the next hill. Shall we unfurl the banners?”

“Please.”

Ingrid flies forward to relay the order to the bannermen, who raise not only the blue banners of Faerghus but also several large, white flags. Dimitri is uncomfortably aware of how he left things the last time Claude saw him here in the past. He wants to be crystal clear about his intentions on this visit, lest the city assume the Kingdom army has come for a fight.

They’re made to wait there at the gates while a runner takes word of their arrival to the Riegan estate. Dimitri feels an itch he can’t scratch under his flesh, an agitation that worries at his patience the longer he must linger here. He’s dismounted and taken to pacing by the time the messenger returns to convey Claude’s permission for them to enter. It takes all of Dimitri’s remaining willpower to keep from galloping off ahead again through the streets.

But as they ride, his agitation slowly fades. The city is bustling and active, not eerily silent. The citizens are all around them living their ordinary lives, not huddling on ships out at sea awaiting a fate over which they have no control. They pass by the harbor at a distance on their way to the hill that overlooks Derdriu, where Leicester’s sovereign duke resides, and the cheery shouts of dockworkers and sailors replace the clash of steel and cries of pain that live in Dimitri’s memory here. By the time their small entourage ascends that hill, his uneasiness is replaced entirely by an anticipation so intense he feels a little nauseous. Glenn’s voice tells him not to get his hopes up, that he saw Claude die in his arms and nothing can undo that, but he refuses to believe it. He doesn’t need hope; he has faith.

Only Dimitri and Ingrid enter the manor, shown to a cozy sitting room with obvious modern Alliance sensibilities to await His Grace. They wait only long enough for Ingrid to quietly ask His Highness to please stop pacing once before Claude appears, and--

 _Claude_. Dimitri finds it difficult to breathe for a moment, so overwhelmed is he. Claude is here, he’s alive, and he has never known the crushing pain of defeat at the hands of the Empire. Dimitri wants nothing more than to run to him, sweep the duke up in his arms and hold on tight, never to let go. But, of course, there’s...a time and place for such things, and here in front of Ingrid with staff moving in and out is not it.

“Dimitri?” Claude sounds so uncertain, at first, that Dimitri starts to wonder if maybe he _does_ remember the invasion, but soon his usual smile is firmly in place. “Dimitri! And Ingrid, too. I can’t say this isn’t a surprise, but it’s a more welcome one than you might imagine.”

Ingrid stands and gives Claude a slightly stiff little bow of greeting, but she smiles. “Hello, Claude. It’s nice to see you, er...off the battlefield.”

“Likewise.” And then his full attention is on Dimitri, green eyes alive with--relief? curiosity? wariness? All three, the prince thinks, and all understandable. Claude keeps a bit of distance between them; not enough to be impolite, but enough to be out of arm’s easy reach. But even as he approaches that far, Dimitri can see that he walks with a slight limp. Shame heats his face.

“Hey, Your Kingliness,” Claude says. “I didn’t expect to see you again so soon after our little class reunion.”

“Claude…” Dimitri hangs his head. “I am truly sorry for everything I did at Gronder Field. I...I offer no excuses, but please believe me when I tell you that I would do _anything_ to go back and undo it all.” If only. But Byleth might have outright died if they’d tried it. “I--...Is your leg all right?”

Claude watches him with that too-sharp gaze, his smile never wavering. “Nothing a little rest can’t cure. It’s all water under the bridge.” Dimitri has trouble believing that Claude could simply put it behind him so easily...ah, but the timing. Dimitri received the duke’s letter in Fhirdiad on the night he retook the city, which means he must have sent it at least a few days prior. So Claude wants to gloss over Gronder Field because he’s already planning to ask for aid. But whether it’s sincere or not, Dimitri has a second chance to repair the damage he’s done to his relationship with this incredible man, and he doesn’t intend to squander it.

“...thank you, Claude, from the bottom of my heart. I do not think I will ever forgive myself for raising my blade against you in anger.”

Claude chuckles. “Easy there, big guy, no hard feelings. In fact, you’re just the man I was hoping to see--which, I gotta say, is a pretty unbelievable coincidence, since last I heard you were headed to Fhirdiad.”

“Yes, there has been a change of plans. If you are amenable, I’d like to explain it with a bit more privacy. Ingrid, please excuse us, if you would?”

“Works for me,” says Claude, as Ingrid nods and stands. “Actually, you stay here and enjoy the tea--we can go somewhere else to chat.”

“Ah, I thank you!” She sits back down, clearly pleased at the opportunity to have a few more pastries. Dimitri chuckles quietly as he follows Claude from the room, heading deeper into the manor.

“Care to let me in on the joke?” Claude asks with idle curiosity.

It only makes Dimitri smile all the more. “It is only the comfort of knowing that some things never change. Ingrid will always have a fondness for food, and you will always be a walking bundle of probing questions.”

Claude laughs. “Too true. Right in here.” He stops at a thick wooden door and unlocks it with a key from his pocket before pushing it open and stepping aside to let Dimitri through into a homey room that is almost certainly the duke’s personal study, and almost uncomfortably warm. A fire burns merrily in the fireplace, despite the season; Dimitri would never have even considered such a thing in a balmy Derdriu spring, but apparently Claude doesn’t agree.

An enormous mahogany desk filled with scattered papers, books, and other small clutter sits close to the window, but Claude declines to sit there, instead leading Dimitri to a more intimate little corner of the room where two fluffy armchairs flank a small glass table. Making furniture out of glass seems tremendously irresponsible to the prince...he supposes that’s just one of those Leicester quirks he’ll never quite understand.

“Now,” says Claude once they’re seated, “what brings you to my humble abode?”

Dimitri doesn’t detect any fear or wariness now in Claude’s eyes, which gives him a measure of consolation. Still, the other man’s acting so...polite. Professional. Impersonal. Dimitri can’t stand it, not after the harbor. He leans forward in his chair. “Claude, I certainly intend to discuss it with you, but can we not speak as...as friends, first?” Are they even that anymore? Do friends stab each other with holy weapons?

Claude studies him. That gaze always makes him feel so exposed, but he finds that he doesn’t mind much anymore. After everything, Dimitri has nothing left to hide. “All right,” says Claude. “Dimitri, we-- _I_ thought you were dead. It was a shock, seeing you at Gronder like that. Clearly, the last five years haven’t been kind to you.”

Ah. Claude has apparently become less allergic to straightforward conversation since the academy. “They have not,” Dimitri confirms. “I am afraid I...lost my way, for quite some time. I was fortunate to have friends and mentors who stayed to help guide me back to it. I intend to atone for all the lives I’ve taken and the misery I’ve caused.” Not that Claude has ever spoken of ‘sins’ or anything of the sort, but certainly he wouldn’t approve of the beast Dimitri allowed himself to be for so long--who would?--and he feels the urge to make sure Claude understands how seriously he’s taking this.

“I don’t doubt it,” Claude says quietly. “Justice is all you’ve ever wanted. It doesn’t surprise me that that hasn’t changed.” His smile is small, but--Dimitri thinks--genuine.

“Yes, I suppose that is true.” Trust Claude to find an uplifting angle of even this. “But what of you, Claude? You seem to have taken so well to your new position, I would hardly believe that you had only a year or so to prepare yourself for it.”

“I guess leadership just comes naturally to me, huh? Sure is hard, being this good at everything.” Claude’s grin goes back to normal. Which, Dimitri knows, means he’s putting on airs on purpose, but--

“It does come naturally to you,” Dimitri agrees, entirely sincere. “Despite the way you tried to keep your distance and pass yourself off as too irreverent, you have always been gifted with the ability to gather and inspire others, to coax them to work together despite any differences they may have. You have inspired me more times than I can count.”

Dimitri would be lying if he said he didn’t derive some self-satisfaction from the way Claude’s face reddens. That he can still take this man off-guard with earnest praise that he inarguably deserves is somehow a comfort. It feels like the ice has cracked deeply, at least, if perhaps not completely broken yet.

Claude looks thoughtful, not responding right away. He gets up and crosses the room to the desk, picking up a sheet of parchment and bringing it back to his seat while Dimitri watches curiously. “Believe it or not,” Claude says, “just this morning I was writing a letter to you. Thanks for saving me a messenger.” He winks and offers the parchment to him.

Dimitri believes it, of course, because he already knew. But he takes the letter anyway and reads it again. His lips press together into a flat line as he wonders how he can explain his unnervingly well-timed arrival without sounding suspicious, especially to someone as attuned to potential betrayal as Claude. When he looks up again, Claude’s frowning a bit--oh, seeing the frustration on Dimitri’s face while reading _this_ must be discouraging, indeed. The prince hastens to make an attempt at lightening up, smiling. “I am...touched, Claude, that you thought to reach out to me even after...all of that, and had faith that I would reach back.”

“What can I say?” Claude shrugs, losing his frown immediately. “I believe that if you give people a real chance to reach out to each other, nine times out of ten they’ll do it.”

“And you did not think I would be the tenth?”

“No, I didn’t.” Claude’s eyes crinkle pleasantly at the edges. “But you don’t seem all that surprised.”

Damn this man and his keen eye. Dimitri sighs and sets the parchment down on the table. “That is because I already know that the Empire’s forces are on their way to invade the Alliance. I came here to warn you about it, and...to offer my support.”

Claude’s eyebrows lift. “Congratulations, Dimitri, you’ve successfully taken me by surprise. I was sure you were marching to Fhirdiad.”

“I was. But Fhirdiad will keep for a few weeks more. It is worth it to ensure that the Alliance does not fall as well.” _Nor its leader with it._

“Huh.” Claude smiles, but his gaze is shrewd. “Funny timing, isn’t it? Here I am, just about to send this letter to you, when you waltz up to my doorstep like you’ve already read it.”

A bead of sweat rolls down the back of Dimitri’s neck as he tries to remember how he used to summon that princely smile even when his mind felt a thousand miles away. He’s sure he does a lousy job of it. “Yes, that...is quite interesting, isn’t it? I suppose it’s a good thing we came when we did.”

Dimitri can tell by the way Claude’s looking at him that he doesn’t intend to let it drop completely, but at least he lets it drop for now, which is good enough. “Must be the Goddess’ doing, huh?” Claude says with a wink.

“It must be,” Dimitri agrees readily. “At any rate, my army has made camp in Daphnel and can arrive here in a matter of days. I can share with you the...information that I have received, regarding the Empire’s movements and intended strategies, so that we may cut them off at the pass, as it were.”

“I’d say that’s more aid than I ever expected. It should go over well at the next Roundtable, too, so take some extra thanks for that little blessing.” Claude grins.

“Of course, Claude.” Dimitri’s voice is softer, now. “I would give you anything within my power to give, if it would help to keep you safe.”

Claude’s smile slips, then, into something that makes him look much younger and much more uncertain--much more innocent. Just for a moment, before he gathers his composure around him like a cloak and clears his throat. “That’s awfully kind of you to say, Your Royalness,” he says. “How do you know I wouldn’t take advantage of your generosity?”

And he’s playing, of course, Dimitri can see that clearly. Playing the game he plays with everyone, the one that keeps them comfortably at arm’s length. Dimitri doesn’t want to play this game anymore, but he can’t just flip the board and scatter the pieces; Claude would only retreat further. So instead, the prince just smiles. “I know you better than that.”

This time, Claude holds it together a little better. With one hand on his hip, he smirks. “Is that so? I have to wonder exactly what it is you see when you look at me that I don’t see in the mirror.” He seems to decide, abruptly, that even with levity to cast doubt, he’s said too much. He glances out the window. “Ah, the afternoon is getting late, I’m afraid. I’m expected at yet another meeting soon. Make yourself at home, and tell Ingrid the same.”

Dimitri nods. “I will.”

Claude smiles and walks to the door, but he stops and turns back just before he opens it. “Hey, Dimitri. You’ll join me for dinner tonight, right?”

 _Me_ , not _us_. It’s all he can do not to rush across the room and...and he isn’t even sure what he would do, but he wants to do it, badly. Instead, he only nods again and repeats, “I will.”

Claude’s smile grows a bit warmer just before he leaves. Dimitri thinks then that no matter what Claude asked of him, he would give the same answer every time.


End file.
